


The Nature of A Beast

by Bennyhatter



Category: Original Work
Genre: Animalistic, Biting, Blood and Violence, Cannibalism, Feral Behavior, Grooming, Human Experimentation, Hybrids, Mental Instability, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Science Fiction, Superhuman mutations, Supernatural Elements, Torture, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:53:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28335711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bennyhatter/pseuds/Bennyhatter
Summary: Everything is splattered with blood, the crisp edges of the photographs soggy and torn. Eroded away by violence and pain until every other memory is gashed through and tattered by a beast’s claws and a pain so encompassing he can’t tell where it originates from. There’s fire in his veins and poison in his lungs; his jaw aches from the shift and press of fangs that tear his lips when he opens his mouth to scream.There’s a roaring in his head; a radiating pain cramping his abdomen. Warm wetness splashes across his face and trickles over his arms. Something collides with him and he feels his mouth open; hears the snarl of a monster from his nightmares and feels the way his throat vibrates and strains. More screaming follows -- is it his? He doesn’t know anything but the blur of white and streaks of red; wet flesh on his tongue and the irritating sensation of meat caught between his teeth.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 15





	1. Run

**Author's Note:**

> First of all -- hello. It's been a while. I hope y'all are doing well in the hellscape that this year has become. 2020 is almost over, and dear gods, it did not at all go the way I was expecting it to.
> 
> Secondly -- I have not given up on Nothing Boy, for those of you who may see this and worry. Genki and Vindin require a very specific headspace for me, and I cannot quite get into it right now, but I haven't abandoned them.
> 
> Thirdly -- this is 1000% the fault of my sister, who broached this idea with me and then set me loose to do what I do best, so you can thank her for... this. Lol
> 
> Please, for the love of God, mind the tags you guys. This is a violent and bloody story filled with jesus-lords heaps of dear-fucking-Christ themes, and even I don't 100% know where it's gonna go, or how often it'll be updated. So just... tread carefully. Don't trigger yourselves. Abort if you need to, I won't be the least bit upset or offended.
> 
> No beta, so all mistakes are mine. I'll run back through this in the next day or so and fix what I can find.
> 
> Without further ado, proceed with caution. You have been warned.

His memory is a series of half-remembered snapshots in a photo album he’s not even sure is his.

_“He’s coming around too quickly! Sedate him!”_

He thinks he remembers a face -- a warm smile and eyes crinkled with affection -- but the features are blurred, and trying to clear the image makes his head throb.

_“You said this would be enough! Secure the ties!”_

Somewhere, in the depths of the miasma that swirls through his thoughts, he vaguely remembers the warmth of a fireplace below a cluttered mantle; the blurred image of a blonde man with warm eyes and a woman with a fox’s mischief in her smile.

_“Run emergency protocol; he cannot be allowed to get awa-”_

Everything is splattered with blood, the crisp edges of the photographs soggy and torn. Eroded away by violence and pain until every other memory is gashed through and tattered by a beast’s claws and a pain so encompassing he can’t tell where it originates from. There’s fire in his veins and poison in his lungs; his jaw aches from the shift and press of fangs that tear his lips when he opens his mouth to scream.

_Code Black. Code Black. Emergency Protocol: Code Black. Level One containment escape. Proceed with immediate lockdown of the facility. All faculty are to head to your nearest panic bunker and remain there until further notice. I repeat, this is Emergency Protocol: Code Black-_

There’s a roaring in his head; a radiating pain cramping his abdomen. Warm wetness splashes across his face and trickles over his arms. Something collides with him and he feels his mouth open; hears the snarl of a monster from his nightmares and feels the way his throat vibrates and strains. More screaming follows -- is it his? He doesn’t know anything but the blur of white and streaks of red; wet flesh on his tongue and the irritating sensation of meat caught between his teeth.

Animal panic claws at his chest, shuddering through his lungs and making his heart race. The fur down his spine bristles, his naked skin chilled by the artificial cold being pumped into the air around him. He doesn’t know where he _is._ He can’t remember anything but blurry, half-formed thoughts and faded images. The abstract gleam of fractured light over something slim and metal; heaviness in his limbs and bile coating the back of his tongue.

After that, pain and nothingness. Cold hunger and an even colder rage. A beast uncurling in the back of his mind and prowling forward, shredding everything its paws touched until it opened its massive, bloody jaws and snarled for freedom and vengeance.  
  


 _“Stand down, 0410. I repeat,_ **_stand down-”_ **

  
Agony pierces his shoulder and he howls, clawing his own skin to ribbons. He feels rounded, lumpy metal against bone beneath his claws and digs it free. There’s more screaming, more flesh caught in his teeth. The feel of sleek, solid steel giving way beneath his fingers and palms, leaving pain and a wet, torn feeling that he ignores as he rips his way past white walls, white floors, red bodies -- and tumbles to his knees in a patch of life-green grass.

There’s warm air against his skin, ruffling his hair and the mane of fur that runs down his spine. He snuffles and smells dirt and nature and stale cleaning agents, and blood. So much blood, sharp and coppery and spicy. He licks his lips and tastes it, a spark of freshness in his sour-coated throat.

Another wall looms in front of him, but this one is broken up by holes held together by much thinner steel wire. He curls his fingers through the gaps and tears it open, ignoring the way the jagged edges catch on his shoulders and sides. His wound is leaking blood down his bare chest, matting at his groin and trickling down his thighs, but he can’t feel the pain anymore. He can’t feel anything but elation and rage, a beast commanding his thoughts and eradicating his memories. He doesn’t need them here, because he’s not anything memorable anymore; not anything remotely human.

Was he human before this? He can’t remember the shape of his flesh. Can’t remember anything but feeling a beast muzzled beneath his skin that runs free now, carrying him on bare feet through the dark, solid shape of tree trunks that tower above him. Things flit and chitter in the darkness beyond his awareness, running from the same rumbling snarl that chases him from that cold, white place. His lungs are burning from the sudden heaviness of breathing thicker, humid air, clumps of hair clinging to his cheeks and the sides of his neck where fur doesn’t reach. He feels his ears pin back, thin and fragile enough to pick up every sound past the thunder of his heart in his chest. It’s overwhelming, an influx of noise when before there had been so little. He claws at them, desperate to block it all out, to block out the ragged, excited panting of the monster that dogs his heels. His tail is heavy and stiff where it curls between his blood-slick thighs, catching on the drying smears and pulling against the tacky wetness.

The world blurs around him, becoming just as meaningless as the rest until the cold shock of water snaps him out of his dissociation and he stumbles, catching himself against algae-slick river rocks and nearly cracking his skull open when his palms slip over them. He digs his claws in and hunkers down, shivering from shock and confusion. The snarls of the pursuing monster have tapered off, his jaw still strained by the fangs that press into his gums and drip red from his torn lips. He looks over his shoulder, dark blonde fur flattened by the water weighing it down. The slope of his shoulder is bare, pale skin; water beats against his unprotected ribs and sends goosebumps skittering over his naked legs. He digs his toes into the sediment and strains to pull himself from the river, panting harshly and searching the clear-bright night for the source of the half-choked whimpers of whatever wounded animal he’s stumbled too close to.

There’s nothing in his line of sight, but his twitching ears pick up the swell of voices flickering to life behind him; the baying howl of dogs and the heavy thunder-deep thudding of their paws as the pack races through the forest and tears up the underbrush.

The monster’s sudden snarl catches him off-guard and he jolts, the wounded animal falling silent from fear. Rage as cold as the water wells in his chest and rushes up his throat, bursting free and giving shape to a noise he never knew he could make before. His throat feels like it’s about to collapse beneath the force of the sound, and he scrambles for the opposite bank, clawing his way up the sharp drop-off and shaking himself like that’ll warm his numb fingers. He stumbles and catches himself against a tree, the bark rough and rich with the scent of moss and rain-rot. He scrapes his nose over a patch of it, snuffling uncertainly until another howl sends him bolting through the darkness.

\---

Buildings rise around him, flat and sleek with sharp angles and sloped rooftops. He flits through the shadows, slinking like a feral dog through the alleyways and listening for the sounds of pursuit. Bile drips from his lips, foam flecking the edges of his mouth as he pants. The sun is hot above him, but the structures that rise from the ground like man’s desire made real offer a shade that he blends into gratefully. The air is ripe with a riot of scents, fresh and stale and pungent and alluring. He smells things that make his cramping stomach _throb;_ catches scents on the wind that make the beast haunting him snarl and pulls his lips back from his aching fangs. His lips are still raw, his gums pricked with holes, but none of it hurts him anymore. Nothing hurts except for the _hunger,_ and it’s so consuming that he can barely think straight.

He stalks a shape shambling through the alleyways, huffing and grumbling low in his throat when they stagger and sway like a sapling in a storm. He sees marked skin and bloodshot eyes; feels the swipe of steel through his flesh when he crowds into them and they struggle to defend themselves.

  
 _Prey,_ the beast snarls, salivating and foaming at the mouth just like him. Snarls cut through the desperate screams and shred them to nothing, leaving behind a silence that is never truly empty in a territory so full of bodies and noise. He rips into his meal with a single-minded hunger, swallowing hot, bloody meat in chunks he barely takes the time to chew. Whatever pain the prey caused him is already gone, a thin, pale line smeared over with a mixture of his blood and his meal’s.

Bones break beneath the force of his jaws, offering him marrow that tastes better than anything his hazy memories can recall. He slurps and sucks, tearing every sliver of fresh free that he can until his stomach surges from something very different than hunger. Already on his knees, he buckles forward and throws half his meal back up, gagging and choking as the meat he barely bothered to chew forces its way back into open air. Whining, he paws at it, digging his claws in and forcing it past his teeth again and again until his stomach settles and allows him to keep his meal.

A scream startles him -- he’s been too focused on the hunger, too distracted, the beast is _furious_ \-- and it’s instinct to tackle the woman and rip her throat out, quenching his thirst with the tang of her blood while the bodies around him erupt into chaos. Their shouts pierce his sensitive ears and he snarls around the cartilage clamped between his teeth, tearing himself free and barreling over writhing bodies as he runs for the safety and natural quiet he’d left behind in the forest.

Metal beasts roar and scream at him when he darts in front of their path; one clips his flank and sends him spinning in front of another one, which strikes him and throws him up across its body. He lands heavily on the dark, hard ground, coughing out a mouthful of his own blood. The pain is an agonizing, radiating tear, and by the time he’s on his feet and leaping over another beast, it’s already fading. He tears open the side of a different one with his claws to show his displeasure, a monster stealing his rage to roar at the predator that dares mock him.

Bodies cluster close, soft hands reaching out to grip at him. He tears through them, bristling and snapping at weak nails that catch against his skin and drag lines through the blood. A finger glances across his fangs and he bites down, feeling the crunch as the knuckles give and tendons snap beneath the force. He recoils from the scream and spits his mouthful onto the ground before he’s running again. They follow him like the dogs had, the baying in their voices nearly drowned out by the wailing scream of a metal beast that follows.

  
  
_Sun-hot metal, gentle hands, a laughing grin and warm leather beneath his palms-_

Whining, he stumbles into another alley, shaking his head frantically to rid himself of the molasses-thick drag of images that make no sense to him. His eyes cloud, sharp colors turning dim and gray until he blinks free of the fog. At the far mouth of the alley, he finds a quiet street and the towering rise of welcoming trees curving along the edge of the dead-end road. The very last building is small and smells like nature -- smells like something that doesn’t belong in the putrid myriad of scents that make up the concrete jungle at his back. He slips past it, hackles raised and ears pinned as he watches warily for more shouting prey.

“There’s no need to fear them here,” a voice calls, and he whirls on the woman, the beast’s snarl catching in his throat when he meets her stare. Curling, dark brown hair frames her face, her green eyes watching him with a knowing light. She’s sitting on her front step, relaxed and unafraid. She smells like spice and flowers and something that belongs to nature, free of the man-made tang of the prey whose blood still sits heavily on the back of his tongue.

He snarls at her for good measure, warning her away, and she re-crosses her legs without concern, resting her narrow chin on the fist propped on her knees. She watches him as he skirts her territory, calm and unassuming, and the beast rumbles _predator._ Not one that wants a fight though, and his hackles flatten slowly once he’s got the trees at his back and her house in his sight. She’s turned enough to follow his path, every movement slow and fluid. Her tongue flicks against the thin curl of silver through her lower lip, drawing his gaze, and he watches her twist the ring with thoughtful pushes. He studies her and recognizes the way he’s studied in return, but this isn’t clinical or threatening. Even the monster is quiet, his throat soft and his jaws relaxed.

“It’s a hard world to find a place in,” she offers easily, granting an absolution he hasn’t asked for. Something lights in her eyes when he rocks back onto his haunches, his tail draping stiffly over his foot. His ears are still flat against his hair, though one flicks forward when she pulls a thin, white tube from the box beside her hip and lights the tip with a flick of something that sparks fire near her thumb. The tip glows like embers, and when she exhales, the smoke clouds her face and turns it muddled.

  
  
_Mischievous eyes, a wide smile, a hand on his arm that doesn’t hurt-_

He shakes his head roughly, pawing at his own temple with a grating, frustrated noise. And all the while she watches him, her head tilting just slightly to the side. He watches the beat of her pulse at her throat in return, slow and steady in the face of a monster, and glares at her through the spread of his crooked fingers.

“I won’t tell them,” she offers, taking another breath from the stick that wisps acrid-smelling smoke into the air around her. The exhales smell bitter and burning, and he wrinkles his nose at the stench, which makes her lips pull into a lopsided grin. “It’s a bad habit, I know; I wouldn’t recommend it. Tastes just as bad as it smells.”

Another breath, and he growls, his ears twitching at the rising sound of pursuit. He looks from her toward the alley he’d crept from; down the stretch of the quiet, dark ground where more metal monsters rest, their eyes blank and dark. _This place is unnatural,_ he realizes like a delayed revelation, shuddering at the thought of living in such a broken, caging world. There’s enough prey here to feed him for a lifetime, but it tastes tainted compared to the fresh lure of the forest behind him. Shaking his head, he backs between the trunks and lets the shadows cover him, his eyes never leaving the woman as she continues to watch him.

“Go, be free,” she urges, her teeth flashing between the playful split of her lips. “I’m not gonna tell ‘em a damn thing. Shackled peasants, the lot of them. Can’t tell their ass from the hole their shepherds guide them to.” Grinding out the glowing stub of her bitter smoke-stick, she flicks what’s left onto the plate between her bare feet.

“Like hell I’m gonna be one of those sheep, either.”

_Predator,_ the beast echoes, curious and intrigued. It rumbles in his throat, coming out as a wordless croon, and she hisses right back, bright and pleased. It’s the assurance he needs to turn his back on her and vanish deeper into the comforting wrap of the trees, the ground fresh and soft beneath his feet and palms as he lopes toward the scent of water. There’s life teeming around him, but all of it is pure and innocent. The farther he goes, the fainter the stench of the hard jungle becomes, until there’s nothing but nature and the trilling chitter of birds above his head.

He startles a vixen at the creek, snarling when she growls and snaps her teeth, and she’s quick to slip away into the underbrush, her bushy tail and the sleek streak of her russet fur vanishing in seconds. He waits a moment, just to be sure, before dipping his chin and mouth into the cold, fresh water and drinking to free his mouth from the poison of the prey and the woman’s bitter smoke. Once he feels refreshed, he climbs the rest of the way into the creek, finding the deepest spot he can and burying his feet and hands in the sandy sediment. It’s cold, but it isn’t jarring enough to drive him back onto the bank, so he hunkers down and waits until the bloody water runs clear again; dunks his head beneath the surface and shakes his hair clean once he comes back up for a breath of air. He shakes his head again to get the water out of his ears, flicking droplets with every twitch until he flattens them against his hair.

Climbing back out, he shakes off the rest of himself, feeling the warmth of the air against his skin and knowing he’ll be dry and warm again soon enough. He follows the creek, leaping its narrow span with the ease of a bounding deer. There’s a simple fun in it, a joy in the coil and release of his muscles; the jar of the landing and the way his claws dig into the soil for just a moment before he gathers himself and leaps again.

A new scent catches his attention -- mossy rock and cool dryness. He follows it to a cluster of boulders that have fallen from their home along a raised cliff ridge. It’s not very high -- high enough to hurt if he fell from the top, but not impossible to climb, with ample slopes and ragged holds marking its rough surface. What really catches his interest is the dark, gaping maw of a natural cave tucked almost out of sight behind the boulders. He scents the air, mouth dropping open to draw in a breath, and rumbles when he doesn’t catch the scent of anything but a colony of bats. If anything once called this space their own, it was long before he found it.

Inside, he finds the cave to be shallow, but still more than deep enough to offer shelter and a hiding place from prying eyes. The ground is dry, and so are the walls when he rubs up against them to scratch an itch and rub his scent into the rock. He scent-marks the boulders at the mouth as well, rubbing against them before lifting his leg to relieve himself and add another layer of _mine-my-territory_ scent for any predators that may lumber by and see the same potential he had.

Back in the cave, he eyes the stalagmite pillars that support the roof in multiple places. There’s moss and smaller rocks; tiny, barely-there scent trails of mice and voles that have scampered through and made a lingering maze he snuffles and licks at with interest. They’re long gone now, and far too small to satisfy a hunger like his anyway, but he wouldn’t resist snapping one into his jaws if he could catch it -- predators eat prey, after all, and that’s all there is to it.

_Don’t tease the poor thing, you’ll give it a heart attack-_

Pawing at his head, he whines in frustration at another pulse of not-there memories. Snapshots and snippets of voices, of emotions, of a life that was never his -- not that he can properly remember, at least. It’s like a stranger watching clips and reels of someone else’s existence: that’s all it is. He can’t clearly picture faces, can’t pick out and identify voices. Even now, with the thought slipped from his grasp, he can’t recall the words or the way they were spoken. All it does is hurt his head, and he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like thinking about it. He doesn’t _want_ to think about it.

The monster growls in agreement, chasing him from the coolness of the cave and back out into the forest. There’s still an entire territory to explore and claim, after all, and bedding to gather to soften his nest. He leaves the not-really-memories in the shadows and hazy fog of his mind where they belong, lifting his nose to breathe in deeply and wait until the wind tells him where to go.

It’s easier to push the images away, and even if they are somehow related to him -- that life isn’t one he remembers, and it isn’t one he feels a longing for. Instinct rules him here and now, and that instinct dictates he establish his territory and mark his borders, so that’s what he does, remaining distantly aware of the monster that settles into the back of his mind to wait and watch with rage-bright eyes and the gleaming flash of serrated fangs.

For now, he is safe, but he must never let his guard down again, or they will find him and drag him back to those white walls and the sharp prick of the tools that pushed fire into his veins. The thought is enough to make him snarl and lash out at the closest tree, bark and wood exploding under the swipe of his claws and the strike of his palm. The tree shudders at the pain of the gaping wound he leaves behind, and he stares at the crater he has carved deep into its trunk, tilting his head curiously before turning away and prowling in a different direction. The breeze tugs at his hair and twines through his fur, ruffling the dried tufts and tickling across his bare skin as if it’s coaxing him along.

With no reason not to, he follows its whims, his tail swaying behind him with every step.


	2. Horror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so, uh, remember how I said to mind those tags? Lolololol seriously please do, there's some pretty heavy descriptions of a dismembered body in this chapter.
> 
> Also, please welcome our other main character! I hope you like him, even if he's... how he is.
> 
> Happy 2021, please let it be a happier year ohgodplease
> 
> As always, mistakes are on me. I'll check back through in the morning in case I missed anything.

When his phone shrills with a disturbingly familiar tone at one in the afternoon, Jordan Martin groans and rubs at his face. His stubble is rough beneath his calloused palm, dragging with prickling pain over nerves that are dulled after years of handling guns and tearing his skin more times than he can count. That’s the emergency work number -- the _you’d better fucking answer if you’re not dead and you don’t want to be_ number. Nevermind that this is his first day off in over two months; nevermind the fact that he’s hungover from sheer exhaustion and he looks like something a tiger chewed up and spit out purely from spite. His boxers cling to his thighs, catching the hairs there and pulling annoyingly as the sweat sticking the fabric to his skin chafes and pulls. His tank top is old enough to beg for mercy, threadbare and nearly completely unwound where it pulls over his left shoulder.

In the immortal words of his mother, _Jesus, boy, you look a fuckin’ sight._

Swiping his cell off the kitchen table, he jabs the green circle with sleep-blurred eyes and hikes it into place against his shoulder; it’s cool against his cheek and hard against hardened muscle, an old and familiar weight that he accepts with a grizzled sigh and a, “What, Palmer?” as his ass hits the bare, unforgiving wood of his only chair.

“All hands on deck, Martin,” Jeanie replies, having enough mercy to sound apologetic on his behalf. “I know it’s supposed to be your free day, Jo, but it’s one hell of a situation. Marks doesn’t care if you show up in your pajamas or in the fuckin’ nude, so long as you get your ass to Prospect and 3rd, stat.”

“Well, that can’t be good.” Eyeing his half-empty carton longingly, he sighs in resignation and shoves himself back to his feet. “What can you tell me over the phone?” he mumbles as he pads through his cool, dark apartment toward his bedroom. The laminate squares are blessedly cool beneath his bare feet, and from the way every step sticks with an unpleasant, tacky sound, he can tell his place is due for a good cleaning. Not to mention the empty takeout cartons spilling from his overflowing trash can; the clothes draped over his worn-out furniture with the same limp, wrinkled tiredness his body currently feels.

Fuck, he wishes he could drape himself over his bed and go back to sleep with the same level of carelessness, but Jeanie is talking quickly in his ear, so he forces himself to pay attention while he opens his drawers to find a fresh pair of boxers.

“We’ve got at least four victims, two DOA. The other two don’t look like they’re in good condition, and we’ve got witnesses spewing more testimonies than we know what to do with,” Forrest Police Department’s sole dispatcher rattles off while he gets dressed. He puts her on speakerphone and sets it on the edge of the dresser to free up his hands while he listens; shucks his tank top in favor of a plain tee-shirt and slides a pair of cargo shorts up his legs. Not very professional for a deputy, but fuck it -- summer in Forrest is no joke. He’s not technically supposed to be on the clock today, and Marks won’t care anyway, so he can deal with it.

“What’s the main suspicion? Stabbing, mugging, gang violence?” Not that gang clashes happen much in their city, but it happens from time to time. With two people already dead, and two more seriously injured, it makes more sense than a typical robbery.

“Wish I could tell you,” Jeanie sighs, sounding almost as tired as he feels. “Some people are claiming they saw a rabid dog, and others are swearin’ up and down they saw some freakin’ cryptid or somethin’. There’s just too many unknowns, but it’s far from pretty. Get there quick, Jo, or Marks is gonna start tearing peoples’ heads off himself.”

“Will do, Jean. Call me if there’s any updates, will you?”

“You got it, sweets.” She hangs up, and he finishes dressing as quickly as he can, feeling some of his tiredness burn away as adrenaline teases to life. Despite being a city, Forrest really doesn’t see much crime -- hence its small police force. Squabbles and grocery store disagreements are the majority of their calls, and he’s definitely not complaining about that, but it makes for a harsher reality when things like this crop up.

It’s easy to pretend the world is as sleepy and quaint as your little corner of the wood until brutality goes for the jugular and reminds you otherwise. Jordan knows he’s lucky, to be able to wish for such mundane relaxation when so many other places see horror and nightmarish violence daily, but he’s always been a selfish man, and firmly of the opinion that if it didn’t involve him, then it wasn’t his problem.

_Why do you want to be a police officer?_ His mother’s voice rings in his mind, a faint memory from when he was a reckless teenager and he’d come to her on his own with plans for his future.

_Dunno,_ he remembers having answered, one skinny shoulder lifted in an uncaring shrug. _Seems easy. Bet it’ll feel good to be the hero sometimes, like those guys in the movies._

_You need more conviction than that. It’s not a fantasy, Jordan, and you’re not a superhero,_ she’d scolded him sharply. He can still recall the pain when she’d snagged his ear and twisted it in punishment. _Don’t think so recklessly of others’ lives. Go into your future honestly, or you’ll regret it._

He hadn’t, and he can’t say he regrets much of the way he lives to date, but that’s neither here nor there. He’s always had a tricky relationship with his own emotions, and empathy isn’t exactly something his friends and coworkers know him for.

Grabbing his keys, he locks the door behind him and heads outside to the worn, tired-looking four-door parked in his designated spot. It’s neither new or flashy, and in desperate need of a cleaning, but it does its job well getting him to where he needs to be, so he slides behind the wheel and takes a deep breath before shutting the door and sliding the key into the ignition. It roars to life with a reliable growl, heavy and rumbling hard enough to rattle his skeleton, and he gives the dashboard an affectionate pat before fixing his mirror and checking to make sure no one’s coming.

Marks will kill him if he gets into an accident on the way to the scene, and if there’s one thing in the world that scares Jordan more than, well, anything, it’s the look of impending death on the chief of police’s face when someone fucks up at the worst possible time.

\---

“Ah, well. Fuck.”

“That reaction seems… tragically understated,” Louis comments, looking up from the mangled body he’s crouched next to. His blue gloves are already smeared with blood, his glasses catching the light until Jordan can barely see his brown eyes through the glare. “I thought it was your day off?”

Jordan waves at the alleyway by way of answering, taking in the sight and feeling queasy. His lips itch for a cigarette, his molars grinding when he clenches his jaw, and he’s pitifully grateful that he didn’t manage to snag any breakfast -- or lunch, in this case -- before he got the emergency call. If he had, it’s likely it would have ended up all over his shoes and the ground, because the scene before him is something straight out of a bloody, gruesome horror movie.

There’s blood all over the ground, and part-way up the alley walls. It doesn’t look like there’s much chaos besides usual grime and trash cans, and aside from some blood splatters across the receptacles, it looks like nothing’s been touched. Like there wasn’t any kind of fight. It makes no sense, considering the state of the body Louis is leaning over, his bloody gloves swapped for a fresh pair so he can take more pictures with the camera hanging around his neck.

“They’re saying a dog did this?” Jordan mumbles, tilting his head and looking down at the body skeptically. He’s seen more than a few dog bites in his thirty-one years, and aside from the jagged edges of the wounds that could _possibly_ be from teeth, it’s hard to imagine a canine causing this level of damage.

“They’re saying a lot of things,” Louis quips back, shuffling on his knees and twisting to get a shot from a different angle. “The teeth markings are consistent with a predator, but the size and shape of the bite marks is all off, if you really look at them. Here-” He lets go of his camera and rolls the body enough for Jordan to get a good view of the victim’s back, which is nearly as torn up as the front, though in an entirely different way. “Whatever it was took John Doe down from the side, based on what I can tell from the bruising I’ve been able to find. The initial bite was to the throat, which punctured the jugular and led to him bleeding out, but that wasn’t what actually killed him. Whatever it was, it ripped into his ribcage and punctured his lungs with his own broken ribs, and then it, uh, tore his heart out. I’m assuming that it got eaten, because we couldn’t find it anywhere around the body or in the vomit.”

“Vomit?” Stepping closer despite how much he really doesn’t want to, Jordan crouches beside Louis and looks at the bite mark that’s visible on what’s left of the dead man’s shoulder blade. The teeth marks definitely suggest some kind of predator, but the mouth is smaller and rounded rather than elongated and ovular.

“That looks like…”

“A human bite mark, yeah.” Louis lays the body back down and frowns down at his bloody gloves. “The size and overall shape are consistent with a human’s mouth, but the teeth definitely are not.”

“Are we dealin’ with a fuckin’ _meta?”_ Jordan hisses through gritted teeth. He rubs his face with a rough, dejected groan, because that’s the last thing any of them fucking need. Frankly, he’d welcome a robbery gone horribly, horribly wrong over this. Fuck, a _gang war_ would be better than this, because those situations at least involve humans. Humans are simple, and easy. _Metas_ are an entirely different problem, one he knows damn well that they aren’t equipped to handle. _No one_ is properly equipped to handle a meta once one of them goes on a rampage, and while cases of metahumans losing their cool are far less common than cases of confirmed metas cropping up anywhere in the first place, it’s still a disaster of unmitigated proportions when it happens. Enough of one that it’s drilled into their heads in the Academy, and talked about with sharp, no-nonsense severity in schools all across the country.

“We might be,” the tech confirms quietly, which makes Jordan look at the victim with entirely new eyes. His entire chest cavity has been carved open, his lungs shredded and a gaping hole where his heart used to sit. It’s hard to distinguish organ from meat until his eyes drop down to the body’s abdomen, where the intestines bulge and pool from its side in rank-smelling, looping coils. It’s like he’s been gutted, an animal led to slaughter -- it’s almost impossible to even tell what he looked like aside from his pale skin and the wispy, tangled clumps of bloody hair alternately clinging to his crushed-in face and splaying out around his head. That they can tell he was a man at all is a miracle, but aside from the gouges across his hips, and the clear signs that something or someone has been chewing on his legs, his genitals are relatively intact.

“You said vomit,” he murmurs, pressing the back of his wrist against his mouth to keep the bile from surging up his throat. “You saying it threw up or somethin’?”

“Looks like it.” A hand gestures toward the side of the alley, where numbered markers frame pools of mostly-dried vomit. There’s more chunks of chewed meat and liquids he pointedly doesn’t think about, and a fucking lot of it. There’s also claw marks through most of it, like whatever threw up its lunch was trying to push it away, or--

“Yeah,” Louis continues when Jordan loses the battle and dry-heaves against the wall. “From what we can tell, it threw up at least twice and then just kept eating that. Gomez said there were a few officers called in early, when shit first went down, but they lost it pretty quickly over on Meadowlark Street. Apparently it’s a dead-ender that borders part of the forest.”

“Which means whatever the hell it is, it’s likely in the woods,” Jordan chokes out around the stone in his throat. He hasn’t thrown up through sheer force of will, baring his teeth in a wide grimace in an effort to avoid contaminating the scene in any way. “Palmer said there were two dead on-scene. The other body around here anywhere?”

“She got killed out on the street, so the coroner already had her body taken away to keep panic down. She wasn’t nearly as torn up as this guy, though. Whatever got her, it tore her throat out all the way and crushed part of her cervical spine, but that was it. My guess is she got between it and its escape, which is how the other two got clawed up. They’re critical, but they should pull through.”

Taking a slow, hissing breath through his teeth, Jordan closes his eyes and counts to ten, and then back down to zero, before he opens them again. “Richie around here anywhere?” he grunts. He hasn’t seen his semi-partner yet, but it’s hard to imagine she isn’t nearby. Palmer said it was all hands on deck, after all, and he’s beginning to understand why. Even if Marks doesn’t suspect a meta -- and honestly, who would? They’re so _rare_ \-- it’s still a crime unlike anything they’ve ever seen before.

“Last I saw, she was interviewing people over on Meadowlark. You can head on over if you want; I’m almost finished here anyway, and Martha is on her way over with the other van. She should be here in a few minutes.”

Louis sounds like his usual self, but Jordan can see the strain around his eyes and the way he’s white-knuckling his camera, even if his hands are steady. He’s been on the force for almost as long as Jordan has, and he’d seen his fair share of horrible shit in the field even before getting assigned to Forrest three years ago, but it’s pretty fucking clear that he’s never faced anything like this before. Clapping the blonde tech on the shoulder, he squeezes briefly before picking his way toward the other side of the alley. Meadowlark is three streets over, if he remembers correctly, tucked away from the loud business of Forrest’s bustling center. It feels like a completely different world, almost, when he finally makes his way through one more alleyway and between two of the houses that act almost like a barrier between the quiet street and a semi-busy road. Despite being so close to the two-lane, the cul de sac is surprisingly quiet, even with the people milling around. He sees Richie’s car halfway down the street, the lights on top flashing lazily, but the woman herself is at the end of the street where asphalt thins into lush green grass and thick, mossy tree trunks.

Tucking his hands into his pockets, he heads her way, eyeing the woman Ritchie is speaking to as he approaches. She looks relaxed enough where she’s sitting on her front porch with a cigarette slowly burning down between her fingers. Her dark, curly hair is piled into a messy bun atop her head, her arms bare and heavily tattooed with images he can’t quite make out from this far away. It looks like she’s wearing harem pants and a tank top, which hugs her curves and dips down just enough to show a flash of cleavage when she leans back; her feet are bare, and also tattooed.

She catches sight of him before Richie does, her pierced lip twitching up into a lopsided smirk. Her head rolls to the side, loose and easy, and her piercing gaze feels like its carving right through him once Jordan is close enough to see her hazel-green eyes. “Good afternoon, detective,” she drawls, flicking the ash from the tip of her cigarette. “Pleasure to meet you, though I’m afraid I don’t have much more for you than I had for your partner, here.”

“Any information you have is invaluable to us,” Richie says, and she doesn’t sound quite as relaxed as the woman watching them with a look Jordan doesn’t know how to interpret. The detective’s words are short and clipped around her kind tone, her black hair pulled back into its customary braid doing nothing to hide the tension in her jaw. Frowning at that -- usually Richie is way better at doing witness interviews than anyone else, including him -- he steps up beside her and nudges his partner with an elbow where the woman won’t see it.

“So you’ve said,” she murmurs, stubbing out the end of her filter and flicking it into the ashtray on the steps beside her hip. Leaning forward, she rests an elbow on one thigh and props her chin on her first, looking between them in lazy sweeps that aren’t entirely dissimilar to a cat watching whatever’s caught its interest; weighing the desire to pounce with the desire not to move from wherever it’s comfortable. “Kaleth Aspen,” she offers after a moment of observing Jordan while he does the same to her. “Friends call me Aspen.” Now that he’s close enough, he can see her tattoos clearly; fairies and creatures he has no name for, all of them wrapped up in constellations and trees and flowers. The sleeves look chaotic, and yet there’s a story to them, he’s sure, but now is neither the time nor the place to ask.

“Hello, ma'am. I'm detective Jordan Martin. You’re sure you didn’t see anything, Miss Aspen?” he asks, trying to be professional despite the way her nose wrinkles at the honorific.

“Just Aspen is fine, please. I have very little use for titles. And no, unfortunately, I didn’t see anything at all. I wasn’t home when everything happened; I was on the other side of the city, visiting my brother. His name is Jacob Aspen; I told your partner that I can give you his number, if you’d like it.”

“That would be helpful,” Jordan admits. His nose itches, the hairs on his nape prickling. He glances toward the forest beside them, searching for any sign of _something_ that could help them figure out just what the fuck is going on. “Would you be opposed to us checking around your property for anything that could help our investigation? We’ll do our best not to disturb anything.”

She waves her hand in a dismissive _go ahead_ gesture, still watching them with those hooded, unreadable eyes. Something about her sets his teeth on edge, like they’re two predators from different species that don’t get along. He almost hesitates to give her one of his cards, but he offers it after a moment anyway, waiting for her to pluck it up between two painted nails. Her eyes track over his name, his job description, his work and home phone numbers, while she rattles off her brother’s number for Richie to write down.

“If you can think of anything else, please don’t hesitate to call me at any time,” he offers, doing his best not to clench his jaw when her eyes roam over him from head to toe in one last lazy sweep before she nods and stands up.

“Just be sure to put everything back the way you found it,” she reminds them as she turns away. “It’s important that you do.”

Left with that last cryptic statement, he stares quizzically at her closed front door, belatedly noticing the dark shade of purple it’s been painted, and the weathered designs etched in dark black paint that swirl across every inch and spill out onto the doorframe and the wooden siding. “Is she a witch?” he asks dumbly, looking at Richie and blinking. His partner snorts and smacks his shoulder after she pockets her notebook.

“Don’t be an asshole. She’s eccentric, I’ll give her that, but that doesn’t mean anything.” Wiping the sweat from her face, Richie sighs heavily. “I don’t know,” she adds more quietly as they head around the side of the house that faces the forest. “She wasn’t belligerent or attempting to dodge any questions, but she wasn’t exactly…”

“Forthcoming?” Jordan guesses, cracking his neck and pausing beside a sundial at the back corner of the house. It’s got moss growing up its concrete base, but the brass head and dial are polished and bright; there’s a fairy statue perched on a leaf at the corner of the clock, holding up a tiny glass as though offering it to them. “She seems like the type to guard her secrets close, I’ll admit that, but she didn’t seem overly hostile.”

“It’s just a feeling she gave me,” Richie mutters, her hands on her hips while she faces the forest. “It’s not like she was challenging everything I said, but it _felt_ that way. Like she was just waiting for me to say the wrong thing so she could rip into me. It reminded me of a cat I used to have when I was growing up, believe it or not; friendly enough when you pet him, but quick to rip your hand open when he took offense.”

“Maybe she doesn’t like cops.” It wouldn’t be the first time they've crossed paths with witnesses who were far from fond of police officers. And if that’s the case, she’s definitely one of the nicer ones they’ve met. “At least she didn’t tell us to get a warrant.”

Richie makes a noncommittal noise and drops the conversation, so he focuses on combing every inch of the yard with her, doing his best not to disturb any of the statues or flowers. The more he sees, the more he wonders if maybe she _is_ a witch, or at least really into a lot of new-age spirituality, but it’s not really his business one way or another; they’re not here to judge anyone’s beliefs, nor would he.

“Do you really think it could be in the woods?” he murmurs quietly, standing just outside of the treeline by the road. He can’t see anything that suggests an animal or something human-shaped went into the woods, but he’s never had an eye for that kind of thing anyway. There’s a reason he’s never lived anywhere but the innermost parts of Forrest, and why he never tried to join the K9 unit.

The woods are not a place for him. He doesn’t even go hiking.

“Only one way to find out,” Richie mutters, rubbing the back of her head with a heavy sigh. Like him, she’s in a thin tee-shirt and cargo shorts, her gun a dark, bulky thing at her left hip just barely hidden by the hem of her shirt. “For now, we should head back and report what little we _have_ figured out. At this point, until we figure out what we’re dealing with, there isn’t a whole lot we can do with so many wildly different testimonies. We’ll reconvene at the station and go from there; that’s all we can really do right now.”

“Damn, today sucks.” Jordan rubs his face with both hands, hoping in vain that he’ll be able to scrub away both his lingering exhaustion and the horrors that haunt the backs of his eyelids now if he just pushes hard enough. Grinding the heels of his palms into his eyes, he lets out a rough, discontent noise Richie always insists is his “angry bear growl” or whatever the hell it is she calls it. “Man, I really fuckin’ hope this is just a one-off and not the work of some fuckin’ psycho killer.”

_Fuck, I really, really fucking hope we aren’t dealing with a meta, either,_ he thinks with a fizzle of fear that sends chills all the way down his spine. They’re far, far too unequipped with that kind of nightmare. Letting his hands drop, he shoves them into his pockets and stares at the forest. Somehow, it seems far more sinister now than it had when he first glanced at it. The shadows thrown by the trees seem like they’re reaching out with malicious intent, and he takes a healthy step back until he’s out of their reach.

“Let’s get back, Richie, before Marks calls and threatens to maim us for stalling.”

“Yeah,” his partner says quietly, rubbing her bare arms like she’s cold despite the fact that it’s over one hundred degrees out today. She pivots on her heel suddenly and marches back up the street, her spine straight and her shoulders squared. Jordan is quick to follow after her, refusing to look back over his shoulder despite the way his nape burns like something is watching him, boring holes into his back from amidst the trees.


	3. Sacred

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hallo, friends. Heads up for some more blood/killing in this chapter, but it's pretty much predator-hunting-prey levels of violence and not, y'know, ripping humans apart.
> 
> Also, our friend stumbles across an altar in the woods, so if that's not your thing, just know it's there.
> 
> As always, all mistakes are my own.

The sky is starting to shift from bright blue to ember orange by the time the woman leaves her house and walks toward the forest. She’s wearing the same clothes she had on earlier, when the people came to speak to her and look around her den. He didn’t like them -- didn’t like the way they smelled of things that make his hackles bristle and his head throb. He especially didn’t like the way the man stood and stared into the forest, as though he was looking right through the trees at him. He knows he was too well hidden to be seen, but the feeling of having that dangerous, predatory gaze on him was unpleasant for a myriad of reasons. Even now, hours after they’re gone, he shrinks back from the woman’s approach and growls in warning.

“I showered,” she says simply, offering her hand palm-up. Her scent is clean and fresh, tinged with something herbal that settles his shivering muscles when he breathes in deeply. There’s no taste of a trap, or pain, so he pushes his bulky muzzle against her wrist and snuffles quickly before backing away.

“They don’t know you’re here,” she promises, brushing a few dead leaves off a rotting log before sitting down. There’s a bag hanging at her hip, cloth and unassuming, but the scent coming from it catches his attention more than anything else. He zeroes in on it, nostrils flaring wetly when he sniffs the air, and he catches her small smile from the corner of his eye.

“My name is Aspen. I brought you something to eat in case you were hungry. I know you don’t need my help catching meals, but the more we keep you away from the city, the better it’ll be for you.” She unloops the strap from her shoulder and opens the bag, pulling out several baggies full of raw meat. He growls low in his throat, creeping closer before he can think to stop himself. He ate well earlier, so logically, he knows that he shouldn’t be hungry, but he _is._ It claws at his insides like a beast demanding to be sated, and the woman -- Aspen -- barely has time to toss several bags onto the ground between them before he lunges.

Plastic tears easily beneath his claws, and it doesn’t matter that he’s dropping pieces in his voracity -- he picks them from the forest clutter without a care for the dirt and debris that clings to the lean, cool meat and pops them into his mouth like candy. He doesn’t like that it’s not blood-warm and fresh, but it’s better than an empty stomach and the hunger pangs, so he eats every last scrap and rocks back on his haunches to lick his palms and wrists clean. Aspen cleans up the scraps of plastic with care, and he watches her do it, puzzling over the markings on her arms that go all the way up and spill across the nape of her neck in swirls of dark ink; slipping down between her shoulder blades and disappearing under the edge of her top.

“You’re a metahuman, aren’t you?” she asks once she’s zipped the bag closed and set it behind the log she’s chosen as her perch. She pulls her feet up to sit cross-legged in an impressive display of balance, propping her cheek on her fist and watching him with unabashed curiosity.

_Metahuman._

It’s… familiar. In a way he doesn’t understand. The word stirs his memories, and he paws at his head with a frustrated growl, catching behind his ear with a claw and flinching away from the sudden shock of pain. Licking up the blood that dripped down onto his knuckle, he grumbles low in his throat and closes his eyes.

_Why can’t I remember?_

It’s a peculiar thought -- remember what? Is it even important, if he can’t? Does he really _want_ to? But that word, _metahuman,_ eats at him, burrowing deep until the fur bristles all the way down his spine and his tail stiffens behind him. An image comes to the surface of his mind sluggishly, like he’s pulling it from bog-muck; sticky and thick and unwilling to clear. He focuses so hard he feels the strain in his temples and his ears flatten.

_Baby, you cannot tell_ anyone _about this. You’re special, you’re very different, but you musn’t tell a soul. Promise me, honey. Promise mommy you won’t tell._

**_I promise, mommy._ **

Blinking his eyes open, he bites his lip and worries at the ragged flesh he’s already torn with his fangs. His jaw aches again, and he doesn’t know if it’s because he’s been clenching it, or if it’s because his body still isn’t used to this shape.

_What shape? This is how he’s always looked. He’s never been anything but this, with the monster watching from behind his eyes to remind him._

“You are one, aren’t you?”

Aspen’s voice startles him and he whirls on the woman with a snarl, digging his claws into the dirt and tensing his muscles to leap. She puts both hands up this time, her scent spiking with surprise, but not fear. Not malice. There’s something threatening about her, a danger brewing just below the surface that isn’t the same as his monster, but right now, that intent isn’t being aimed at him. She’s treating him like a friend -- _like pack,_ his instincts insist -- which doesn’t make any sense. He’s never met her before in his life, but that familiarity still sticks like burrs until his hackles lie flat and his stance relaxes just a hair.

“Such an interesting pup you are,” she muses, touching her chin and tilting her head in thought. “I’ve never heard of a meta looking like you before. Typically you can’t even tell that they’re anything but human. And you’re definitely not young…” She’s muttering to herself, slouched on her log and paying no attention to the insects buzzing and flitting around her head. A fly lands on one of the curls brushing her cheek and he stares at it, but she doesn’t seem to notice it’s there at all. “If you’ve lived this long, looking the way you do, that brings up a lot of questions.”

_Looking the way you do._ He snarls at that, looming over her and baring his teeth until she makes a noise of understanding and the light in her eyes flickers and changes. “No, no, I don’t mean it like that,” she promises, reaching out to touch his arm like he’s not a feral beast; as if she’s not at all concerned about him ripping her throat out or tearing her head from her shoulders. He could do it, he knows he can, and it’ll take laughably little effort. He’s stronger than she is -- stronger than those people earlier who walked with purpose and the glint of sunlight off the weapons at their hips. He’s stronger, and faster, and far more dangerous than any of them could ever hope to be. And the fact that he knows that without knowing _how_ makes him dig his claws into his own scalp and rumble angrily. Glaring at her through the tufts of his own dirty russet hair, he chuffs sharply and snaps his teeth.

“You’re an amazing creature,” she breathes, the fingers fluttering over the back of his hand as light and ticklish as butterfly wings. “A true marvel. Special beyond measure. They wouldn’t even know what to do with a treasure like you.” She follows his fingers up to where they’re buried in his hair, touching his claws like they won’t peel her skin open if she shifts the wrong way. “They’d put you down like an animal because they’re _afraid.”_ She bares her own teeth at that, and the only thing that keeps him from lunging for her vulnerable throat is the fact that he knows she isn’t threatening _him._

“Humankind is so quick to destroy anything they don’t understand,” she sneers, and he frowns at her tone; at her unbridled disgust and the way she talks about humans like she isn’t one of them. She smells entirely human, like sweat and herbs and smoke, with an underlying current of _predator_ that still makes him wary. “They’re greedy, and foul, and all they care about is power and sitting fat and content at the top of the chain. They’re so arrogant, the filthy pigs. They have _no idea.”_

Aspen’s laugh is short and sharp, shattering like the bark on the tree he’d punched earlier. He flinches back from the sound with a grumble-whine, his ears drooping back uncertainly. Nothing she’s saying makes sense to him. She loathes humans so much that it’s leaking out into her scent, but there’s none of that harsh anger directed toward him. He killed people today -- he _ate_ one of them -- and that doesn’t seem to concern her in the slightest. No, instead, she watched him vanish into the forest earlier, and when those people showed up, she gave no sign of knowing anything they were talking about. She’d been borderline hostile toward the woman, as though she were an unwelcome presence on Aspen’s territory, and she hadn’t been much kinder toward the man.

_“Sir, he shows promise, but we’re having a difficult time sedating him. His metabolism burns it off too quickly.”_

_“Then raise the dosage. He’s resilient; he’ll survive.”_

_White walls, gleaming silver, the shine of light off the needle raised above him; he could see the plunger pulling back slowly as pale pink liquid filled the syringe from the bottle the woman held upside down in her other hand. There was something thick and scratchy filling his mouth to muffle his snarls and shouts while his mind screamed_ **_don’t do this please no stop-_ **

Lurching back, he yelps when his shoulder collides with the tree behind him and hunkers down into a defensive ball, covering all his vital spots and pulling his tail close. He’s breathing harshly, sharp and shallow, hair and fur alike standing on end all over his body. Goosebumps ripple across his suddenly freezing skin, and the sound he makes next is strangled and animal -- a cornered beast desperate to get away that has nowhere to go.

“You’re alright,” Aspen murmurs, her voice piercing the heavy fog slowly. “You’re alright. You’re in the forest; there’s no cage in sight. No danger. Breathe in for me; smell the trees. Can you smell that squirrel over there?”

He breathes in, chasing the scent until he finds it, musk and dust and something vaguely nutty. He turns his head to stare at the tiny creature clinging to her branch, her bushy tail raised and flicking in alarm as she stares straight back at him with her dark, liquid eyes. He opens his mouth slowly, bloody saliva dripping down the side of his chin that he can’t focus on enough to wipe away. The sounds of the forest trickle in, beating back the memory until it’s nothing but a low, aching pulse at the base of his skull. Shaking his head slowly, he blinks the dancing lights from his vision and looks up at Aspen; curls and uncurls his hands in jerky twitches as he tries to remember how to use his muscles.

“There you are,” she says softly, tucking her curls behind her ear and smiling. “Poor thing, you must have gone through such terrible experiences. I’m sorry I made you remember them.”

Backing away from her, he growls softly to warn her not to follow after him before he turns and runs for the safety of the deeper woods, where the trees grow and twist around each other like they’ve tried to fuse together. Mountain laurel winds around thick trunks and creeps across the forest floor, tangling itself in vines and rising from patches of ferns that tremble when he bounds through them. The creek is easy to find again, his own scent trails already laid down heavily to guide him home and keep others away. He leaves behind the memories, the anger and uncertainty and the vicious derisiveness that sharpened Aspen’s tone when she talked about humanity like they were little more than cattle.

It’s dark enough for the nocturnal creatures to be stirring. He hears foxes bark back and forth; the near-silent flutter of an owl’s feathers as it spreads its wings and drops from its branch to chase down a mouse. Nothing disturbs him as he climbs over the boulders and slips into his cave, but he still looks over his shoulder warily to make sure absolutely nothing is paying attention to him before he disappears into the cool darkness. The bats are already gone, the ceiling quiet and still above him when he lifts his head to look at it. There’s droppings scattered around courtesy of the colony, but they’re easy enough to toss out into the forest for the undergrowth. Shaking his hands to flick off what stuck to him, he curls his fingers and stares down at his dirt-smeared palm; his long, knobby fingers and thick, curved claws. He touches his fangs, feeling their shape and the way they fill his mouth unnaturally, and scowls at the taste smeared over his hands. Spitting it out, he chews the side of his tongue and scowls at the pain and the blood that blooms when he cuts himself -- apparently even his molars are dangerous now.

Remaking his nest, he crawls onto the thick bedding of feathers and soft grasses once he’s satisfied, curling into a tight ball and draping his tail across his face. With one last deep sigh, he closes his eyes and waits for sleep to take him.

\---

_“Son, we’ve got a bit of a problem.”_

_He frowns, his shoulders tensing, but otherwise shows no sign of the anxiety that kicks up in his gut at those solemn, damning words._

_“Sir?” he asks, staring straight ahead and standing at attention, his hands fisted behind his back. “Have I done something wrong?”_

_His commanding officer sighs, tapping the manilla folder in his hand against the edge of the desk. “In a sense, yes, Private First Class Brayden,” he replies. His face is aged by war and stress, his brows heavy over his deep-set blue eyes. His hair is heavily streaked through with gray, cut short on the sides and slicked back up top to keep it out of his eyes._

_“Son, do you know what happens to you when you lie to the military?”_

_“You get dishonorably discharged, Sir,” he replies promptly, still looking forward and doing everything in his power to keep his voice steady and inflectionless. “Depending on the severity of the crime, you can also be arrested.”_

_“That’s basically the gist of it, yes,” Commander Chitwin agrees. He drops the folder onto his desk fully and flips it open. “I need you to level with me, Brayden, and I need you to tell me the truth.” Those blue eyes bore into him, giving him no chance of escape. One forefinger taps rapidly against the paper beneath his heavy hand. “Two weeks ago. The tank malfunction. What did you do?”_

_“Do, Sir?” His mouth is dry; the words feel like shards of glass being forced up his throat. He can feel sweat drip down his nape. “I’m sorry, Sir, but I don’t understand what you mean.”_

_The Commander sighs heavily, his shoulders bowing like they’ve taken on a sudden weight and he isn’t sure how to brace against it just yet. “I’ve been doing this for longer than you’ve been alive, Son,” he says, his voice cracking. There’s a new light in his eyes, a dawning realization that spells horror and promises bloody repercussions. “And never, in all my years, has a single man had the strength to move a fucking tank with his bare hands.”_

_“Because it’s not possible, Sir.” Shit, shit shit, shit. He’d been so careful. He was certain no one had seen him._

_“Four of those soldiers were still conscious, Brayden. If it had just been one man, delirious from pain, the story would have been a lot easier to dismiss as a pain-induced hallucination. But four soldiers? That’s a lot harder to loophole out of, Private, but I’m willing to give you the chance to do it. Convince me, Brayden, and we can make it like this never happened.”_

_The man is shaking, he realizes. Very finely, but his fingers are trembling, pressing hard enough against the report that they’re turning white. There’s a vein ticking in his jaw, and his pulse has kicked up by several beats. Not fast enough to be true fear yet, but holding plenty of potential to get there._

_“I… I don’t know what to say, Sir. It’s like you said; a human isn’t capable of moving a tank with their bare hands.”_

_Commander Chitwin nods slowly. “You’re right,” he says, and the tone of his voice rings like the crack of a gavel. His fate has been sealed. “A human can’t… but a_ metahuman _can.”_

_He doesn’t get the chance to respond to that. Something hits his neck from the side, a sudden burst of unexpected pain, and he reaches up to grip the end of the dart, wild eyes rolling toward the window to his left that’s been left open enough to let in any stray breeze -- or clear a path for a hidden sniper._

_“Sir, no,” he protests weakly, tugging the dart free and staring down at its empty chamber. “No, you don’t understand, I’m not- I swear I’m not-”_

_His commanding officer is quickly becoming blurry and smudged as his eyes lose focus, colors blurring together into a muddy image he can’t differentiate from their surroundings. His voice is heavy with regret and something he doesn’t know how to name._

_“For your sake, Brayden, I hope you aren't.”_

\---

Birdsong rouses him, dragging him from the quicksand-suction of his dreams. His head is throbbing and his mouth is dry, his skin already slick with sweat despite the shade and insulation of the cave around him. It promises to be another blisteringly hot day, but that’s okay; he’s never had much issue with extreme temperatures. Uncurling himself from the tight ball of tension he’s become, he stretches with a pained whine, waiting for his muscles to relax and shudder loose.

Arching his back, he yawns widely, his tongue curling, and shakes himself for good measure before climbing to his feet. He rakes his bangs back as he leaves the cave, squinting against the bright sunlight and realizing with a jolt that it’s already afternoon. The forest is bright and lively all around him, creatures of all kinds racing and flying and filling the world with their conversations. His ears twitch and flick, perking when he hears a jay scold whatever beast has offended it; he turns his head in that direction and pinpoints the bird easily, eyes following its path as it hops back and forth along its branch overhead.

_Oh,_ he realizes belatedly when he sees it’s staring right at him, _it’s yelling at me._

Curling his lip, he barks back, watching it startle and wing away through the trees. There’s a brief lull of sound following his annoyance, like the forest is holding its breath to see what he’ll do, and he chuffs in annoyance. Ignoring all the life around him, he pads toward the creek and hunkers down to drink and wet his mouth, sighing as the uncomfortable dryness eases with each chilly mouthful.

Water does nothing to ease his hunger, but today it’s not nearly as all-encompassing; more of an annoying emptiness rather than a clawing, ravenous need. With how big the forest is, he doubts he’ll have any trouble finding prey large enough to fill his belly, so once he’s quenched his thirst, he leaps across the creek and picks a deer trail at random to follow. It doesn’t take him long to realize that he’s wandering back toward Aspen’s house in a looping, roundabout way, but that thought doesn’t fill him with fear or wariness as much as the thought of running into the woman does. Rather than changing course, he keeps walking, relearning the forest all over again as he moves further from the territory he’s claimed for himself and finds himself passing trees and patches of undergrowth that don’t look familiar to him at all.

The smell of smoke drifting on the breeze brings his head up and he breathes in deeply, growling low in the back of his throat at the spicy, unfamiliar scent. Dropping down to all fours, he prowls closer to investigate, his fur bristling and his mouth open to taste the air. He’s never smelled smoke like this before; it’s not bitter, but it’s not blank either. He smells spice but can’t pinpoint what kind, he just knows that it’s alien compared to the comforting, natural air of the forest.

Something takes shape between the trees, but he doesn’t get a good look at it until he’s right in front of the platform. It’s raised off the ground several inches, its surface sanded smooth and free of any paint. There’s dark, charred marks, but not much else; a few thin sticks are set into those holes, smoke wisping slowly from the burning tips, and he realizes that they’re the source of the smell. He sees scraps of fur and several different smaller bones; a four-point antler and the smooth skull of what must be a doe. There’s different stones scattered across the surface, some set up in strange patterns that mean little to him and others that instinct warns _don’t touch._

Not that he was planning on touching any of it. He circles the platform warily, sniffing and nosing at the rounded edges like a curious dog. He’s close enough to Aspen’s home to recognize that this place is part of her territory; there’s a scent trail that isn’t too old, nearly hidden beneath the stench of the sticks she’s burning.

Looping back around to the front of the platform, he sits back on his haunches and tilts his head, looking his fill and puzzling over what, exactly, it means. It gives off the same strange energy Aspen herself does, though this presence feels more… primal. More like _him_ and less like _human._ His ears flick back, trembling faintly, and he tucks his tail tightly against his leg, rumbling from his chest as he watches a line of ash crumble from the burning tip of the stick and scatter like dust when it hits the surface of the platform.

_This is a sacred space,_ he realizes, though he doesn’t know how he knows it. It’s as sacred as his den and his territory, and he’s quick to slip away before Aspen comes back and catches him invading. Turning north, he bounds deeper into the forest, moving farther and farther away from Aspen and her strange, wild form of humanity until he’s surrounded by natural wilderness. This makes far more sense, makes his instincts feel far more at home. When he catches the scent of the deer herd he'd been following, he lets everything else leave his mind and puts his nose to work tracking down his meal, his fur flat and his ears alert as the last of the uneasiness leeches from his warm, loosened muscles.

It’s easy to find the herd; easy to spook them and give chase when they bolt. He picks his doe and cuts her off from the others, running her into the ground and closing in with snarls and snapping teeth. She’s older, with no spring fawn at her side and a stiff leg that suggests an injury that didn’t quite heal properly. The rest of her herd vanishes into the forest, but she goes down beneath his teeth with a screaming bleat, her cloven hooves kicking desperately until he clamps down on her nape and twists his head to snap her spine.

Once he’s sure she’s dead, he adjusts his grip and digs his claws in, his rumbles deep and pleased as he hunkers over his meal and fills his belly. He sends up a primal idea of gratitude as her spirit leaves her body -- she had to die so he can live, and he’s grateful to her for her sacrifice. It’s the circle of life, after all; prey exists to feed predators.

Lifting his head, he turns his bloody face to the right and stares through the trees, licking his lips and listening intently. He can’t hear anything but the birds; can’t smell anything that cuts through the scent of his kill with worrying intent. Pleased that he won’t have to deal with any scavengers, he drops his head and continues his meal.


End file.
